


Opportunity

by FreezingRayne



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/FreezingRayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hawke, would you stop eye-fucking the elf across the table?” Varric discards with a flick of his wrist. “At least while the rest of us are in the blast radius.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opportunity

Lyrium lines gleam, washed orange-gold in the firelight. Cards fan out between long, elegant fingers. Fenris’ jaw tightens as he surveys his hand, tongue flicking out briefly to moisten his lips.

Warmth curls through Hawke’s stomach. It’s a feeling long since memorised, but it’s only recently that it’s been outlined with a giddy joy, rather than tinged with regret.

He must have made some sort of noise, because Fenris looks up at him, eyebrows drawn inquiringly. Hawke’s skin prickles, a bead of sweat breaking away from his hairline to trail between his shoulder blades. He lets the heat coursing through his body suffuse his gaze, lips parting.

Remember last nightRemember when you bent me over the desk and fucked me until I howled like a Mabari.

Fenris’ cheeks color, so light against his complexion that it’s hardly noticeable, unless you know to look for it.

Recently, people have known to look for it.

“Hawke, would you stop eye-fucking the elf across the table?” Varric discards with a flick of his wrist. “At least while the rest of us are in the blast radius.”

Hawke tries for innocent. “Me? Eye-fucking?” He turns his gaze back to Fenris, who has flushed even deeper, but appears to be fighting a smile. “How could you accuse me of such wanton behavior in a fine establishment such as this?” Over by the bar, a gaggle of miners had just struck up a drunken shanty about a man who’s exploits end in something delicately named ‘knicker-stink’.

Varric picks up two cards, barely sparing them a glance before he shuffles them into his hand. “Suit yourself. But you’re distracting him—at this rate he’s going to lose to Anders.”

Anders shoots a reproachful look from where he’s ensconced in the corner.

Fenris picks up another card. “Not likely.” He’s smirking at the tabletop, but as he raises his gaze back to Hawke, his expression softens. The smirk becomes a smile, loosening the angles of his face, creasing the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. It’s a look that Hawke has only begun to see over the last few weeks.

“I don’t mind the eye-fucking,” Isabela cuts in. She’s sitting this game out, chair tipped back, mug of something foul-smelling in front of her. “In fact…” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Feel free to progress to actual fucking.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Varric advises. “Corf’s been looking for a reason to up the bar prices for months. Dinner and a show would be the perfect opportunity.” Despite his words, his hand twitches toward his pen, as if he’s ready to start writing at a moment’s notice, if any actual fucking were to take place.

Two hours later and they’re making their way up the winding Lowtown streets. Hawke has had enough rotgut to leave the world slightly swoopy and give the torches a strange, shining quality, but not enough that he’s nervous about walking home with nothing but a lanky elf for company. Albeit a lanky elf who can rip your heart out through your ribcage.

Fenris is walking a little ahead of him, that long, wary stride leading Hawke’s tipsy gaze straight to his ass. Many things have changed in the last six years, but Fenris’ propensity for tight-fitting leather is not one of them.

They get almost the to the Lowtown Market (stalls shuddered and locked for the night) before he can stand it no longer.

He has Fenris pressed up against the armorer’s stall in half a breath, kissing away protests, setting his fingers in soft white hair. Lyrium light flares up for a moment before subsiding, as Fennris settles into the kiss with a groan.

When Hawke finally pulls back they are both breathless and flushed. Fenris laughs softly. “What are you doing?”

“Me? I’m licking.” He drags a wet tongue up the line of Fenris’ ear, pulling out a slow shiver. His neck tastes like salt, and Hawke can feel the rumble of growl.

“We shouldn’t—.” Fenris groans as Hawke nudges a thigh between his legs. “This is foolish.”

“I know,” Hawke says, and he does—Kirkwall is a dangerous place to let your guard down, especially nowadays—but he’s giddy with drink and night air and Fenris. “But I haven’t been able to do anything for the past few years but pine over you. So now that I have the opportunity—.”

He kisses him again, and this time there are no protests


End file.
